


How I Lost My Job, Ended US Concentration Camps, and Got the Guy - As well as Several Other Folx Along the Way

by Carry_On_Moss



Category: X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men 2099
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, American Politics, Being Mean to Mean People, Chicano, Chicanx, Cunnilingus, Genderqueer Character, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, La Lunatica - Freeform, La Lunatica has the power to show you your own childhood trauma, Minor Character Death, Modern Era, Multi, Mutant Powers, Mutant Pride, Mutation, My First Work in This Fandom, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary La Lunatica, POV First Person, Past Abuse, Past Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse, Politics, Queer Character, Queer Themes, Rare Characters, Rare Fandoms, Trans Female Character, Transgender, Transqueer Sex, X-Men 2099 - Freeform, main character is abused in childhood but theres no abuse in this fic, muffing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-08-20 23:50:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20236423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carry_On_Moss/pseuds/Carry_On_Moss
Summary: You could say that punishing shitty men for their bad mistakes is my legacy.





	1. Introduction: How I Became La Lunatica

**Author's Note:**

> This is a 100% self-indulgent queer liberal Latinx power fantasy and I'm writing it to deal with the fact that my country is putting people like me in fucking death camps and if you don't like that about me or it, there's a whole Internet to be in away from me, please avail yourself of it.

I am not an interesting person, and I think I was born knowing that. Which is why I’m like this. I am definitely not as interesting as my parents or even my great grandparents. While everybody else’s great-grandmas were fucking other poor people in steerage or being driven away from ancestral lands by white imperialists with pitchforks and shotguns, mine walked from Oklahoma to Kansas City to be a bar tender because if you’re going to fuck an old drunk, it’s really a lot better if he’s not already your dad. 

Meanwhile my family doesn’t talk about the uncles lost in back-to-back world wars, defending a country that still refuses to recognize us, to accept us as theirs. Despite our losses on her behalf, they would have us lose more. They would have us lose everything. In the name of American patriotism, they would kill us when we already died so many times over here. Dead Hernandez’s for miles and miles on every war memorial. 

That is the true horror of the holocaust for Anglos. Not just that there were camps. Not just that people died; were murdered in appalling numbers. It’s that the face they see through the concentration camp fence is so very much like their own. I know because I feel it now. I see it now. 

This body has always been on loan from the state, form the man of the house. The man on the street. The only way to keep your mother’s new white husband from fucking you in your bed at night (actually his bed, he bought it) is to make sure he’d rather beat you instead. Punching and punching the top of your 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13-year-old head until you fall to the floor. Always above the hairline. Always out of sight. 

Sometimes I wonder if I grew all this hair in self-defense. 

You know people still say I’m smart? Sometimes I wonder if I used to be smarter. 

For what it’s worth, I feel smarter now than I ever have. Most of that is knowing that I do not know. I don’t know how you hike your scrawny, ornery ass all the way to Kansas City because you can’t take one more day of his sweaty, drunken advances only to turn around and find that man again, to marry that man again.

Daughters and daughters going back generations, an unbroken line of waking up with him in your bed, tongue in your mouth, hand in your cunt, never peace again, never childhood again. 

The only thing I can say for Mary Delores Hernandez: At least she poisoned the bastard when she finally figured it out. At least she watched him drop and waited for the light to leave his one, remaining miserable freakish eye, and at least she went into her bedroom and put her white gloves on and at least she looked properly grieved when the police finally came. 

Do you remember how he reached for you in his last moments? It was too late, and you knew it. He’d already been in your bed. His bed. He bought it after all. He’d already cursed you like he’d cursed her. The unbroken line of daughters, unbroken still. 

And so it does make sense that when you found him in my bed; it makes sense what you did. Even as fat as he was, there was no accounting for all the blood. Even as sweaty and fat and gross as he was, one does wonder where it all came from. 

Women didn’t wear white gloves in the 80s. That’s why it went down like it did. No way to hide behind the old helpless widow act like Mary Delores did. Damn you feminism. Damn you modernity and all associated toxicology tests. He sure did test positive for lead poisoning.< /p> 

That’s a little joke I like to tell. 

\---

They say that mutation is brought on by trauma or puberty, which is a trauma all on it’s own. It didn’t happen when my mother shot my stepfather for raping me. It happened when they tried to take me away from her, when the fat white cop the same size and height as him tried to tell me he was going to “get me cleaned up.” I knew then with thirteen year old certainty, that I was going to die. He was going to finish what the other one had started and it would kill me. I knew that a cop just like this had shot Jessenia’s brother last week and I thought it was probably him. 

He took my arm to lead me away from my mother, away from the mess we tried to clean up, away from the last of my life and I felt my body began to die. All the blood rushed out of my arms and legs. My hands went numb and there was a buzzing like Texas crickets in my ears that rang through my whole skin. At first, I thought the power was going out but then I realized that my eyes were turning on and off in my head like they had a bad connection. 

Suddenly it was totally silent. Just me and the cop. Except I wasn’t me anymore, I was inside of him. I saw him shoot Diego and I knew this was real. I felt his terror, his smugness, his dishonesty. The lies he was telling himself that Diego shouldn’t have been so cagey, so nervous, but in reality he was no worse than the so-called thugs he and his cop buddies pretended they were doing the world a favor by shooting. He murdered a teenager for less than an ounce of weed, and in the locker room they told him he was a hero. But in the depths of his own mind, he knew.

He remembered Diego, gap-toothed and smiling, playing in summer sprinklers. He remembered him surely and skipping school. He remembered the moment the boy became a statistic for him. Long before he’d killed him. Long before he’d lost him. The day he looked for a boy and saw a man, that was the day he began to prepare for Diego’s inevitable death. To demonstrate authority. To put him in his place; his grave. 

From inside of him I showed him this, I showed him the cowardice, the fear of men and I followed the trail all the way back to a bedroom like mine, a boy like me in a lot of ways. I felt his own version of our story and I knew we were a kind of kindred no blood can compete with. His uncle and my step-father were also kindred souls. They had raped us, and he never told anybody. 

His mother had come from a different tradition than mine. In his family, they don’t kill the rapists. They just bear their children for them and bare their children _to_ them. They sit in the other room and they try to forget themselves and they never really do. Because that’s not the kind of thing you ever forget. Your mind may, but your body never does. So I showed him what his body knew. And he let go of my arm. And I ran. 

\---

On the streets they called me La Lunatica because I was always chasing away the Johns who went after kids. Even the toughest freak can only suffer so many flashbacks before they accept that maybe it’s time to find another spot. 

On the streets is where I learned that the nightmare power, which is what I was calling it, also made me stronger and it seemed to infuse my skin and hair with a quality that was difficult to ignore. I was born an albino, but as I grew into my powers, my pale blue eyes turned red and my skin started to shine silver. I grew up tall. Much taller than my parents had been; taller than most men, even. It became a calling card. Where I had always felt outcast from my family and community because of my coloring, I began to feel pride in my skin and my body for the first time. It was still different, but it was my difference and it gave me strength. 

I also learned that people are usually more scared of you than you are of them. Well, they’re definitely more scared of me. But what I had learned in the beginning with the fat cop proved true over and over again. Even when people are dangerous, they’re also afraid. In fact, their fear is the most dangerous part of them. People will murder you and blame you for it because you scared them. Not with your actions, but with your existence. 

Maybe someday I’ll write my memoirs: The History of La Lunatica. That’s my name now. It’s been mine so long, no one even remembers the other one, if they ever knew it. I’m no man’s woman, no one’s property. I am my own self, and this is not a memoir. It’s just a story about how one queer, orphan, Mexican-American mutant brought down the concentration camps and ended racism in America. 

Just kidding, we’re still racist as hell, but at least nobody’s in a damn camp over it.


	2. Here I Am Having A Perfectly Normal Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we establish our hero's status quo.

The thing about ending concentration camps is that you can’t just go break the people out. They need their stuff back, they need their houses and jobs back. They need to be restored or provided with reparations for what they lost in the camps. We need to mourn the dead and remunerate the living. We need almost as large a force to free them as it took to imprison them. And for that, things need to change on a fundamental level. 

Which was really a roadblock for me. I’m not what you would call a strategist. And I hadn’t really planned on liberating the concentration camps. It all just kind of happened. 

In the Fall of 2016 I had my own problems. It’s not like anybody’s going to let me register to vote as La Lunatica, and let’s be honest for those of us down here at the bottom, a progressive President is as good as a tyrant. It’s not like it matters who the fuck is in charge when you’re neck deep in corrupt cops, drunks and single mothers just trying to pay their bills. Which I was. 

The Theater of Pain was a BDSM strip club. Which mostly meant we all wore collars, and every second Wednesday we hosted a meeting where they whipped somebody’s grandpa live on stage. Exciting stuff. 

I was there to keep the peace and spice things up. People dance for me, not the other way around if you know what I mean. But I also had a kind of dance of my own; reserved for fuckheads who don’t listen to safe-words. 

The night Donald Trump was elected, I was demonstrating my skills for the room. A middle-aged shithead with a bad comb over and an American Express Black card came into the bar a few hours earlier asking for a pro-Domme session with one of our newer girls. Now I don’t know about who’s going to read this crazy thing, but if you don’t know, pro-Domme is short for professional dominatrix. That means the lady hits you, not the other way around. Which is a fact this freak refused to learn. 

So, as the final vote counts came in, I had my target on the main stage, strapped to the Saint Andrew’s cross, crying so hard he was gagging on his own drool as snot dropped into his open mouth and ran down his chin along with the rest of the spit. 

“This is what happens when you disrespect the ladies of the Theater,” I told the room. I had on my smart black bouncer suit, hair in a thick silver french braid, ankle boots for that little extra push that let me tower over most of the men (although that wouldn’t have been a problem with this one), and my signature gloves: full coverage with just tips cut out for my thumb and forefinger. Everyone who went to the Theater of Pain knew what I could do with a single touch, and if they didn’t know already that was the night they learned. 

I’ll spare you the details, but the freak shit himself, which is when I hog tied him and threw him out the back door to figure it out or not on his own. 

I was in the staff bathroom washing my hands with the scrub brush for the third time when Crystal came in to thank me. She’d been the one he punched in the face several times before she was able to hit the panic button. 

She was out of her Domme gear, wearing a flowy white cotton dress and matching converse, she had her bag over her shoulder, ready to go. 

It was the end of the night, customers were filtering out and the bartender was helping the ladies to their respective cars or taxis, making sure they got there safely. Usually that would be my job, but I had other priorities. 

The bathroom was a tight squeeze with someone my size already in it, but Crystal made it work, she leaned against the wall while I leaned against the sink, awkwardly not touching, despite the closeness. Her lip was split and her eye was already starting to swell. We’d charged the nights of work she’d be losing to the freak’s Black Card before throwing it out the back door after him. 

Gingerly, I lifted my hand “can I?” I asked, telegraphing the touch. She looked at my bare skin and glanced nervously back at the alley. “It only works when I want it to.” I said, knowing what she was thinking. Creep or not, I’d gone really hard on that guy tonight. Feeling a little guilty for scaring her, not for hurting him, I dropped my hand and said “I understand if you don’t want me to.” A lot of people changed their mind about me once my mutation became a reality for them. 

She grabbed my hand on the way down and gently placed her cheek into my palm, then looked up at me innocent and extremely sexy. “Luna, come home with me,” she whispered. “Keep me safe.” 

I drove her home in my truck and she sat next to me on the bench seat so I could put my arm around her. Thank God for automatics. By the time I parked, her head on my shoulder was less a suggestion than a clue as to her exhaustion. Her breathing had leveled out and she was nearly dead asleep. I kissed her temple and rubbed the back of her neck to wake her up, but it wasn’t that effective. Between the residual strength I had from wrecking the asshole who hit her, and her own sleepy efforts, we got her to her apartment. I asked her if she wanted me to let her sleep, or if she wanted me to come in. She said both, so I came in. 

I wrapped a bag of frozen peas in a thin towel and placed it over the worst parts of her face while she settled in to the bed, then I took off her shoes and socks and gave her a little foot rub to help her relax. I’d been here before a few times, although I hadn’t given myself much time to look around. I’d been too busy kissing her, teasing her, making her giggle and wearing her out. But she was already worn out, and not in any kind of way I wanted. 

Her apartment was small. The largest piece of furniture was a full sized bed about 5 feet away from the small kitchenette on one side and a garment rack that served as her closet on the other. There was one window across from the bed by the front door, and it looked out over her apartment walkway and the other apartments across the courtyard. Behind the wall the bed was against was a small bathroom with stand-up shower. Under the one window there was a bookshelf. I knelt down to read the titles. Among some battered romances, I found much more political fare. They had titles like _The Revolution Will Not Be Funded, White Trash, Zami: A New Spelling of my Name_ and _Emergent Strategy_. 

She called me to come to the bed before I could pick any one of them up or examine them. “Hold me,” she asked and I did. We fell asleep like that. I hadn’t slept the whole night in bed with someone in so long. I’d almost forgotten how much I enjoy it. 

\---

I woke up in the morning to the smell of coffee. She had used her single burner to boil some water and was walking over to the bed with a battered looking french press and two cups. Her face looked a lot better, the peas must have done their job. I folded my legs up so she could place an old shelf board on the mattress between us and set up the cups and the french press. 

Her eyes maintained a predatory gleam while we drank the coffee in near-silence. After I finished my cup, I set it down and asked “how’s your face feel?” 

She touched her own eye and cheek, and told me it was still sore, but that she was surprised the swelling wasn’t worse, made a deprecating joke about the man’s strength. I laughed, but I felt simultaneously sick and also familiar that we had this shared experience, of being beaten by people truly stronger than us, so much so that the weaker ones were a joke in more ways than one. 

Wanting to get rid of that thought, I moved the coffee things to the floor and crawled towards her on the bed. I reached for her, threaded my hand into her hair at the back of her head, grabbed a healthy amount our it and pulled, yanking her head back exposing her tender throat to my teeth. I pressed them to the spot just under her chin, waiting for permission to go forward, waiting to see what she wanted from me. 

“Please” she whispered. “Mark me.”

I licked a stripe up her neck, preparing the skin for my ministrations. The feeling her morning stubble under my tongue electrified me. It was proof that she was vital and alive under me, growing, changing always. I wanted to consume her, but I settled for latching onto her throat and nipping and sucking the skin until it broke out in a brilliant bruise. Normally this wasn’t something we could do to each other, owing to the nature of her work. But if she was going to be recovering from bruises anyway, some of them might as well be mine. 

Her delicate whimpering turned me on and I practically climbed on top of her to get more, sliding my other arm around her back to hold her close to me while I straddled her. “Tell me what you want.” I commanded between licks. In halting breaths she told me exactly what she wanted and I let out an excited growl. She knew it was one of my favorite things, and I knew it was one of hers as well. 

I whipped the oversized shirt she wore over her head and laid her down naked on the bed below me. I kissed my way down her body, indulging myself with her tits for a minute or two. Knowing they were sensitive as hell, I sloppily licked all around her breasts and nipples with the flat of my tongue, using my spit as lubrication to gently massage the swollen nubs while I held her shoulders down. She gasped my name and begged me to stop teasing her. 

When I had my fill I moved on, scraping my front teeth against her ribs and rubbing my face in the sparse hair that grew under her belly button. Then I grabbed some pillows from the head of the bed and put them under her hips, draping her legs behind my back and positioning her right where I wanted her. 

I took a second to look upwards at her body, admiring the expanse of her torso, her tits and the bruises I’d left on her neck. When I got to her face, she was less than amused. “Do it!” she whined and I breathed a laugh over her sex before kissing the tip of her girldick, flushed and swollen from my earlier ministrations. But that’s not where she wanted me right now. 

Slowly I massaged her balls, warming the skin with my hands and mouth before reaching up under her shaft to find her inguinal canal. Which was relatively easy. We’d done this before. I hooked my finger in her scrotal skin and used the slack to circle the cunt of her inguinal. She moaned and tightened her legs on my back. Slowly and gently, I entered her and heard her head hit the mattress. She’d been watching me until she couldn’t take it anymore.  


Slowly at first, and then with more speed and roughness, I pushed my index finger in and out of her canal, kissing and licking the area around our joined bodies as well as her other inguinal on the other side of her dick until she asked for more. 

“Like this?” I asked, circling her one empty canal with my other finger. “Oh Jesus, yes!” she panted. Knowing she could take it, I jammed my one finger deeper inside her so as not to lose my grip and started with the other side while she thrashed and whimpered. I took my time working my other finger deeper into her. This side was more sensitive, so it took a bit longer and I enjoyed listening to her panting and crying the whole time. When both my index fingers were finally as far deep in her cunts as I could get I stopped and told her I was filling her up, I asked her how if felt to be fucked in both cunts like that and she tried to communicate, but it was lost to moaning and writhing under me. 

I began to massage both her canals but I paid more attention to the first one, eventually I put in two fingers so I could jackhammer her like I knew she liked as her tension mounted. Finally, when she was at her limit, I bent down and put my teeth to the underside of her swollen member, gently but firmly, letting her know they were there with soft biting pressure. She screamed and erupted in orgasm. Her beautiful body drew impossibly tight under me while I eased her through her climax, slowly and gently I removed my fingers from her body and massaged her all around her pubic area as she came back down. I got cum in my hair, but it was worth it. 

We lay there for awhile, me pressing kisses to her mound, stomach and thighs and telling her how beautiful she was and how good at taking it. We didn’t do a lot of sub/dom stuff, but I knew she appreciated praise after cumming. 

Then we traded places and she got me off with languid licks to my clit while she gave as good as she got to my cunt, stuffing her fingers in and viciously massaging my g-spot from the inside. I came in hardly any time at all, already having worked myself up with what I had done to her previously. She gently bit my mons as I came in a delicious turn of play. 

Afterwards, she thanked me because I like being thanked after cumming, and we took turns in the little shower. I washed the cum out of my hair, but I would have to go back to my place to properly clean and condition, something I did every week owing to there being so much hair and the unique texture it had taken on since turning silver. 

Right as I was about to leave, there was a violent knocking at the door. “Police!” they shouted. “Open up!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am nonbinary and trans, but I'm not AMAB, so if you are an AMAB transfemme and there's any part of this chapter and the sex in it that doesn't sound right to you or makes you feel negatively, please let me know and I'm sorry if it did. 
> 
> The sex act that Luna performs on Crystal is called muffing. I originally learned about it in a zine called Fucking Trans Women, which you can buy on Amazon these days. 
> 
> There's also a vice article about it here: https://www.vice.com/en_us/article/59dxw3/a-guide-to-muffing-the-hidden-way-to-finger-trans-women


End file.
